Stripping It All Away
by Finch
Summary: Silmarillion story. Finrod Felagund cycle, Part 4, Edrahil's Tale. Chapter 2 & last up now. Warning: Mild slash element. UST.
1. Default Chapter

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STRIPPING IT ALL AWAY, by Finch

Finrod Felagund cycle, Edrahil's tale

Chapter 1

Based on The Silmarillion and the HoMe, especially the _Lay of Leithian_, in: The Lays of Beleriand (Volume 3). 

Disclaimer: The usual - Tolkien's, not mine. No disrespect intended. Finrod's first words in the throne room are taken from the published Silmarillion. 

My eyes have slowly grown accustomed to the darkness, for I can now make out the shapes of my two remaining fellow prisoners. Perhaps this is only because we are all naked and whatever light there is, lends a shimmer to those parts of their bodies that are not caked with blood. Because his hair has not lost its lustre, my lord is more clearly visible than the mortal Man is, and I think I can see his face, too. It looks taut, and not only with the agony caused by our cutting bonds and cruel chains. But I am glad it is no longer the ugly mask of an orc chieftain - or I would be glad if there was any room left in my heart for joy. 

He is looking at the door of the dungeon, and I know his fear. Soon, the werewolf will come for me. I am the last of the ten who stood by him when everyone else forsook him. The other nine are death - mauled, torn to pieces, devoured by this hideous beast of Gorthaur*. If I would care to look the other way, I would be able to catch a glimpse of their bloodied bones.

I will welcome the werewolf's venomous teeth, as they will finally sever my soul from temptation. It is not death I dread most, but the urge to give in. _Tell me who your lord and his mortal companion are._ That is what Gorthaur's voice has been insinuating in my mind since the day we were thrown into this pit_. Give me their names and their errand and I will set them free._ Them. Or rather, _him_. 

A part of me yearns to believe this master of lies. When I dropped my guard for an instant - the very moment my lord fell before his throne - he unerringly perceived the accursed weakness that leaves me so vulnerable to his ceaseless battering of my mind. But his promise of freedom is false and empty. Gorthaur will do no such thing. If I remain steadfast and silent, he may torture my lord to death in the end, but if he learns the truth, he will turn him into a prize for Morgoth to gloat over. The fate of Maedhros son of Fëanor will await my lord, or worse - and none will rescue him, for the Enemy's strength has greatly increased. 

I hope and pray the monster will come soon. A brief torment, and then release, and expiation in Mandos's Halls.

***

As soon as the mortal was brought to Nargothrond, King Finrod Felagund received him. They spoke behind closed doors, but when they emerged at last my lord was visibly shaken. Never before had I seen him so troubled, and I was ready to resent the mortal for having caused him such distress. 

The cause became clear enough when the king summoned the people of Nargothrond to his throne room. There, he reminded us of his oath of abiding friendship to the mortal Man Barahir, who had saved him in the Fen of Serech. He told us the time to redeem his oath had come, and that he wanted to raise an army to conquer the bride-price that Thingol of Doriath demanded from Beren son of Barahir in exchange for his own gem, his daughter Lúthien: a Silmaril from Morgoth's crown.

_A small price for a maid, whose mother is a Maia_, I said to myself, not without mockery. So even the King of Doriath had fallen prey to the lure of Fëanor's jewels.

Yet the first replies were cries of assent, for many knew about he valour of Barahir and his warriors, and some had been witness to it. I was among them, but I was less eager to aid this Man in his quest than to follow my king and wage war upon the Enemy once more, dangerous as it might be. 

It was not to be. For the two sons of Fëanor who abode as guests in Nargothrond suddenly demanded our attention, bearing themselves as masters of the house. They repeated their father's unholy oath, warning they would wage war on all who should keep a Silmaril from them, calling up images of blood and cruelty and the second slaying of Elf by Elf. As they spoke, few among us did not see the destruction of Nargothrond before our very eyes, and in the visions conjured up by those accursed brethren we recognised our own mutilated bodies and those of our loved ones, lying in pools of gore. 

Then, the people of Nargothrond rebelled, refusing to obey their king, and so he was betrayed according to the Prophecy of Mandos. It was the Oath of Fëanor against that of Finrod Felagund, and the first proved stronger, for it invoked the One. And seeing the Doom of the Noldor come true again my lord stepped down from his throne and threw his crown onto the floor, crying that he would hold his bond and aid Barahir's son despite this betrayal. _'Yet if there be any upon whom the shadow of our curse has not yet fallen, I should find at least a few to follow me, and should not go hence as a beggar that is thrust from the gates.' _

My heart went out to him, as it has always done, and the last traces of the ugly visions evoked by Fëanor's sons were dispelled from my mind. Though I knew I was not at all free from the shadow of the curse, be it in a different way than the king meant, I stepped forward to support him. Nine others joined me. Picking up the crown I handed it back to Felagund and declared that he remained our king. He nodded gravely to thank me and gave it to Orodreth, his brother-son*.

'We leave at dusk,' the king told us outside the throne room. 'Prepare yourselves. Plain garb. Dark mail, grey cloaks. Bows and swords.' He spoke calmly, appearing less troubled and more detached than before - as if the worst had already come to pass in his mind, if not in the world outside. And gesturing to the mortal to follow him, he made to go. But suddenly, a boy not yet full-grown emerged from behind one of the tree-shaped pillars whose adornments Felagund had carved with his own hands when Nargothrond was first established. 

'Ingoldo**, my kinsman,' he said excitedly, 'allow me to go with you.'

I smiled, for I recognised Orodreth's son, an engaging youth beloved by most, who resembled Finrod Felagund more than he resembled his own father.

'No, Artanáro,' came the reply, resolute but not unkind. 'You are much too young to make a journey from which few, if any, will return. And as your father wears the crown of Nargothrond now, you are the heir.'

'I am not afraid to enter Morgoth's lair,' Artanáro insisted.

'The more reason why you should not join us. For I _am_ afraid, and that is as it should be, as you will learn one day,' said my lord, and I loved him for those words. 

My nine companions and I went away to arm ourselves. When I looked back, Artanáro had gone. The king stood talking to Beren - they seemed to get along very well. Felagund's hand, I noticed, was stroking one of his sculpted trees as in a farewell gesture.

The day was fading when we left, unseen by any but the gatekeepers, who spoke not. We all looked the same; nothing singled out Felagund as our leader. Not even his golden hair set him apart, for it was hidden beneath his mail coif and helmet. 

The first part of our journey was the easiest, for here we were still on the Talath Dirnen, the guarded plain of Nargothrond. One night, we were challenged by a patrol of mounted archers, who aimed their bows at us. They recognised our armour but questioned our presence all the same. I felt bound to rebuke them, demanding they treat their king with more respect. They apologised half-heartedly, and let us pass. 

Afterwards, my lord chided me gently. 'Did you really have to pull such a stern face at them, Edrahil? They were only doing their duty.'

'But my lord king...' I began.

He shook his head. 'Call me Finrod, for I am no longer king of Nargothrond.' He looked towards Beren. 'He is an outlaw with a price on his head as high of that of my cousin Fingon.'

Well, he certainly looked like one.

'And we have become his fellow outlaws,' my lord went on. 'We are thieves on a thief's errand: to steal a jewel that does not belong to us, to trade it with one who has no better claim to it.'

He seemed bent on stripping himself from everything: his people, his crown, the name of king, and now, it seemed, even his honour and dignity. If this was what a single Silmaril could bring about, I had no choice but to loathe those things, even if they contained the Light. It must have shown in my face, for he laid a hand on my shoulder. It was the first time he had ever touched me. 'You seem dismayed,' he said. 'Do not lose heart for my sake. It is my doom to run this errand; redeeming my oath is the sole means of release. But if you regret coming with me...' 

I wished the son of Barahir would release him from his oath. But of course, he would not, his mortal mind being set on having Thingol's daughter.

'King or outlaw, we stand by you,' I said. And so we did. 

As Finrod walked on without looking back, I touched my shoulder, where his hand had rested.

*Ingoldo: the name used for Finrod by his relatives; ** HoMe, Vol. 12, The Shibboleth of Feanor, p. 346, 360, resp. p. 349-351.


	2. Chapter 2

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Stripping it all away - Edrahils Tale, 2nd and last chapter

This chapter is for Ithilwen, who, in a different way, wrote about a comparable situation in her impressive story _The Cold Hill of Himring_. 

Despite the presence of what might be considered as a slash element, I don't consider this to be slash. UST comes closer, but even that is not quite to the point. I just felt bound to add this warning. 

A warning of another kind: This chapter is probably even less pleasant than the first one. But - small consolation - as this is written from Edrahil's point of view, Finrod's death is implied but not described.

We travelled along the river Narog towards its source in Lake Ivrin at the foot of the Shadowy Mountains, walking by night and resting and waiting by day. One afternoon it was Finrod's turn to keep watch while we others rested and dreamed - except Beren the mortal, who slept the time away. 

That day I chose not to dream, but to look at Finrod where he sat with his back against a beach, near the rushing river, maybe listening to the counsel of Ulmo, the Lord of the Waters. And as I had bathed in the chilly stream with the others before, now I bathed alone in the sheen of his beauty. 

Mortal men call al the Eldar fair, but to us it is different; we perceive lesser and greater beauty among our own kind. Beren has claimed that none of the children of the world is more fair than his Lúthien. As I never set eyes on her, I could not very well gainsay him. Yet I doubt that I would deem her beauty greater than Finrod's. 

I am not the only one to think he is beautiful. Since he came to Middle-earth he captured many an elven maid's heart unintentionally, merely by being as he is: fair of face, generous, courageous, strong of mind, disarming, and breathtaking. But he never returned their love. 

Nor would he ever return mine. And I do not mean the kind of love that is between a king and his subject, between a liege-lord and his vassal, or even between friends. I mean the love of body and soul that is between men and women. For though we are both male and such a union would be an abomination, this is what I feel for him. The love that is my curse. 

That afternoon, I relished in him from a distance, while he remained unaware of my desire.

We grew more silent as we approached the shadows of the Ered Wethrin. The lands seemed empty, yet we all felt a hostile presence, even the mortal. Autumn crept upon us, and there was an edge to the wind blowing into our faces. Soon, we would have to turn Northeast, towards Tol Sirion and its watchtower. It was Finrod himself who had built it in better days, but after the Dagor Bragollach it had become a den of evil: the abode of Gorthaur, Morgoth's chief servant. Orcs would roam all about it; how would we ever pass unseen?

We mostly camped in the woods now, closely together, for it was dangerous to stray. No one hunted alone anymore. Yet one evening I suddenly missed Finrod's presence among us. Beren noticed it, too, but when he made to rise I shook my head and indicated I would do the searching. He nodded, though on an earlier occasion he had rejected my claim that Elves of any kind make better woodsmen than mortals. 

Finrod had not gone far, yet he was hard to find at first, for my eyes aimed to high. When I finally saw him he was lying flat on the forest floor among the first autumn leaves. He had removed his helmet and bared his head, and his arms were outstretched. He looked like the humblest of supplicants, I thought, and then I realised that he was precisely that. 

I was witnessing an act of contrition. He had shed his pride and was begging the Valar forgiveness, pleading for mercy, asking for the grace to redeem his oath - or all of these. I wondered how guilty he could feel, having had no part in the Kinslaying. Yet he was under the Doom, as were all who had willingly followed Fëanor - and Finrod in his turn had beguiled many into following him. Me, for one. 

Did he feel the error of his ways, the folly of his own pride and stubbornness more keenly, now that he saw his own death ahead? For he did, so much was plain. He was truly being stripped of everything, layer by layer.

Perhaps I should have left then, but my legs refused me. I sank to my knees, closing my eyes to pour out my own guilty heart to whatever Powers would listen.

How long I sat like that I could not say, but at some point, a rustle made me look up. It was Finrod, kneeling opposite me, an inquiring look on his face.

'You look pained,' he said. 'What troubles you?'

I swallowed. 'I am not sure that I can speak of it, my... Finrod.'

'What if you try?'

He was too close by, with his fair face, and his eyes were probing me too deeply. Unable to help myself I bent forward to grab him by the shoulders, pull him toward me and press my mouth onto his. I was fully prepared to be pushed, or even knocked away.

But to my amazement Finrod answered my kiss. It was a lover's kiss - and yet it was not. His tongue probed me as deeply as his eyes had done, yet in a strangely detached manner. The kiss was soothing like balm, and the most remarkable thing of all was, that it did not arouse me.

When at last he pulled away, I touched my lips, feeling numb. 'I did not mean...' I croaked; then I found my voice back. 'I only wanted to tell you I am yours, Finrod, even if you can never be mine.' And looking into his eyes once more I saw what I had failed to see before, not wanted to see before: that he did not belong to himself alone, that he was joined to another, body and soul. 

'I know,' he said sadly. 'Oh Edrahil, my friend, I am more sorry than I can tell you.' He briefly cupped my cheek, his thumb wiping away a tear. Then, picking up his helmet, he rose and extended his other hand to me. 

Together we returned to the others. It was Beren who stood waiting for us, his anxiety turning to relief when he saw us come. For the first time since we set out, I felt less resentful towards the Man. For I was able to accept now that all he had done and all he had asked was done and asked for love requited. 

That same night, Finrod laid his horrible plan before us. We would disguise as orcs to be able to pass the Watchtower of Tol Sirion, now Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves. As soon as we met a company of Orcs that was not too large to vanquish, we would shoot the first twelve and fell the others with our swords. 

None of us had a better plan, so we carried out his. We found, shot and slew our orcs - Beren proving himself no mean archer and as skilled a swordsman as any - and put on their gear, gagging at the stench. We smeared our hands and cheeks with grime, cut off those foul creatures' matted hair and covered our own with it, grinning at each other in embarrassment. And finally, Finrod cast a spell to change our faces into orcish snouts and our teeth into fangs. One by one he transformed us, until at last he lifted his hands to his own face, withdrawing them slowly while his singing faded.

We gasped, for he had changed himself into the most hideous monster of all. Now even his beauty was stripped from him, and I wanted to weep.

But I found that I could not. Orcs have no tears.

In the end, it was all to no avail. Gorthaur intercepted and questioned us, assailing us with songs of sorcery. As a fallen Maia he is less strong than he could have been, yet mighty as his counter-spells were, with all his chanting Finrod could not overcome him: the Curse of Mandos proved a fatal flaw. We were laid bare and stripped of our freedom and thrown into the deepest dungeon of Tol-in-Gaurhoth. But one thing, Gorthaur could not achieve. No one told him what our errand was. No one turned traitor.

***

For not even I will speak, despite the horrible images with which Gorthaur rapes my mind: my lord being tortured and violated, unless I speak and set him free. At last I have arrived at this certainty, though the path was slippery and treacherous. 

The werewolf can come any moment now; is the creaking of hinges I hear? More than for myself, I feel sorry for my two companions, who will have to endure yet another death. Especially for my beloved lord, who must be in deepest despair, dreading the moment when Beren's death will void his oath. 

But as the door opens and I see the familiar, malicious, greedy eyes and hear the panting, the foresight of death comes upon me. And even while the foul beast is upon me, I am granted the grace to know that before he dies, Finrod will redeem his oath to the fullest and be stripped from all that ties him to these sorrowful and mortal lands.

The pain is excruciating, but brief. When it stops, I see the werewolf tear at a lifeless shell. I see - no, sense - Finrod's tears, and to my surprise even Beren's. They should not be weeping for me, I think. They are the ones to be pitied. 

Then I am summoned, and heeding the voice of Mandos, I leave.


End file.
